


The Island

by genteelrebel



Series: The Island Stories [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M, Multi, Romance, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 05:36:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3369779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genteelrebel/pseuds/genteelrebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Many years after the events of Endgame, an aging Joe Dawson visits Duncan and Methos, who have been living together in bliss for more than a decade.  It quickly becomes obvious to both Immortals that Joe is hiding a secret.  Will they ever learn what it is?  And if they do, will they be able to give Joe the help that he needs?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Island

**Author's Note:**

> Weepie warning! You might want to have a hanky ready for this one. Also, a major character death--Joe's--is dealt with in great detail, although that death not actually depicted.

_~MacLeod's Island, Pacific Northwest, 2015~_

Joe Dawson, retired Watcher, not-retired-in-spite-of-his-arthritis blues musician, and ever faithful chronicler of the Immortal Duncan MacLeod, eased his body into the little two-oar boat with great hesitation. Damn it, he'd known there was more than one reason why he'd avoided Mac's cabin all these years. The boat rocked awkwardly under his body, sending a little thrill of nausea through his stomach. "Relax, Joe," MacLeod said as he pulled on the oars, nodding at the place where Joe's knuckles clenched on the boat's edge. "I've haven’t lost one yet." 

"There's always a first time," Joe retorted.

It really was funny. The lake had looked so...peaceful...when Joe was standing firmly on dry land. Now that the shore was rapidly dwindling behind him, it took on all the terror of an abyss. MacLeod, of course, was annoyingly immune to the effect. He grinned at Joe, the muscles under his sweatshirt bunching as he rowed. "Well, in that case, I'll just get a chance to practice my life guarding skills," Duncan teased. "I am fully qualified, you know."

"Yeah, but that was several decades before the bikini was invented," Joe said. "Coney Island, wasn't it?" MacLeod smirked and nodded. Joe folded his arms protectively over his chest. "I've seen the pictures in your Chronicle. You were dressed in a long woolen swimsuit, a flapper on each arm. No thanks, Mac. I'd rather stay dry."

Needing to distract himself from the gentle *slap, slap* sound of the water against the boat's hull, Joe stared at the opposite shore. The cabin grew larger and larger as MacLeod's powerful strokes carried them across the water, and Joe realized that the old house looked better than ever. Duncan had done a lot of renovations over the past few years, in an effort to please his extraordinarily fussy life partner. The cabin was larger now, but only an experienced Watcher like Joe really would have noticed. The remodels blended so seamlessly with the rest of the house that it was difficult to tell where the old cabin ended and the new sections began. "Mac, where's Methos?"

"Ah, another man who doesn't trust my rowing," MacLeod said mournfully. "You know how he is about water, Joe. He threatened to hire a helicopter to air-lift him in the first time he brought me here. And he did make me hire one when we moved in his library." Joe chuckled. "But don't worry. He's at the house, probably pacing back and forth impatiently as he waits for your arrival." Duncan considered. "Unless he's dusting. Again."

"Dusting?" Joe made a game try at imagining the World's Oldest Slacker with a dust cloth in his hand. He failed miserably. "As in, cleaning?"

"Exactly." Duncan nodded. "He's been driving me crazy all week, Joe. You know the drill: cleaning behind the stove, dusting behind all the books on the shelves, that sort of thing. Seems he wants everything to be perfect for a certain Watcher's visit."

"He's afraid I'm going to write up the dust bunnies for your Chronicle?"

Mac laughed. "Hardly. He just wants you to feel at home. You guys have been e-mail buddies for too long, I think. He can't wait to actually be in the same room with you again."

"Huh." Joe shook his head wonderingly. "I think you guys have been on Holy Ground for too many years, Mac. If Methos is getting so desperate for a real live human to annoy that he'd actually do housework...well, you both need to get out more."

"Oh, you'd be surprised, Joe," MacLeod said easily. "It's been good for us, leaving the real world behind. We both needed a vacation from the Game. You know that." Joe nodded soberly--he did, indeed. He just hadn't expected it to last for more than a decade. "Besides," Mac continued. "Technology is truly an amazing thing. With Skype and the new satellite up-link, Methos can annoy people on all seven continents face to face. In real time." Duncan gave a final mighty pull on the oars, and the little boat shot over the last few feet of water to the shore. He leaned towards Joe conspiratorially. "You'd be amazed at the number of universities that have banned all transmissions from the Pacific Northwest."

Joe groaned. "Don't tell me he's trying to correct history *again*."

"You got it." Duncan jumped out of the boat. He wrapped the boat's anchoring rope several times around a nearby tree, then proceeded to help Joe make the awkward transition back to land, wrapping his arms around the aging Watcher and carrying him bodily to the gravel shore. Joe heaved a hefty sigh of relief as his prostheses once again settled back on dry land. "His latest crusade is to get Academia in general to acknowledge that it wasn't the Chinese who invented stirrups after all,” Duncan said. “Seems the actual invention was made by the Scythians in the third century BC."

"Well, I guess he ought to know," Joe said under his breath. He turned toward the cabin. The front door was already open. And a very familiar tall, spare form was lounging casually against the frame.

A heavy weight that Joe hadn't even realized he'd been carrying suddenly lifted. Lord knew, Joe had had his doubts about coming here. In fact, he'd been avoiding this visit for more than ten years. He’d been terrified that seeing Methos and MacLeod together would hurt too much, would cause scabs he'd carefully held in place for years to tear and bleed. But at the sight of Methos, handsome and unchanged and looking ever so slightly anxious, something warm and peaceful flooded Joe’s heart. It *was* good to be here, good to see the old man, even if...well, even if some of the things Joe had once dreamed about could never be. He'd often wondered if he'd die without ever seeing Methos in person again.

MacLeod finished tending to the boat. He settled his big hand over Joe's shoulder. "Come on," he said. "Let's go home."

"Yeah," Joe said, blinking back the sudden mist of tears in his eyes. "Let's do that." Mac picked up his baggage, and Joe started making his slow way up the path.

***

Joe's welcome to the Island was better than he could have hoped for. The hug that Methos gave him as soon as Joe set foot on the porch was warm, familiar, and completely unashamed. Christ, but the old man was actually glad to see him, after all! Joe could almost feel Mac beaming as he stood behind them, Joe's bags dangling from the capable Highland hands. Joe let himself swim in the happy feeling of being wanted. It might not have been perfection, but it sure was damn close…

At least it was until Methos pulled back out of the embrace and took his first real look at him. Joe could clearly see the shock that came into the oldest Immortal's eyes. "My god, Joe," Methos said. "You look like hell. What's wrong?"

"Methos!" MacLeod exclaimed. He followed the word with a groan.

Joe forced a smile. Well, that was the difference between the two Immortals in a nutshell, wasn't it? The Highlander had said nothing about Joe's weight loss and thinning hair. No doubt Duncan had thought it was simply part of the normal mortal aging process, and was much too polite to comment. Methos, on the other hand, had been a doctor, and he had never let mere politeness stop him from saying anything. Shit! Joe knew he was going to have to have this conversation sooner or later. But he would be damned if he would let Methos start it now, on the very doorstep. "Not a thing," Joe said, forcibly cheerful. "The years just aren't as kind to me as they are to you, remember? Although--" he swept his eyes over the Immortal form, letting his gaze linger pointedly on Methos's slightly rounded stomach-- "it seems to me that I detect a bit of middle-aged spread on you too, old man. What's the matter? Spent too many years in luxury?"

Methos had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "It's Mac's cooking," he said, stepping back. "He can't take my head on holy ground, so he's trying to kill me slowly with eggs and bacon."

"I thought some German researchers announced cholesterol was actually good for you sometime last year."

"In small amounts, yes. But remember, Mac comes from a culture that thought haggis was the height of culinary subtlety. He's come a long way over the centuries, but he still believes that if you can't drown it in lard, it isn't real food. "

"Don't believe him, Joe!" MacLeod interrupted. "Methos does most of the cooking around here. His problem is that he spends too much time playing with his tablet instead of chopping wood."

"It's not like we need that much wood, not anymore," Methos retorted. "The new solar panels keep us quite toasty. We wouldn't need a woodpile at all if you didn't have this fetish about fire gazing."

"*My* fetish? Seems to me that you are the one who always..."

The gentle bickering brought a sharp pain to Joe's heart, even as the familiarity of it made him smile. God. It was almost like the last decade had never happened at all. If only... He cleared his throat. "Gentlemen?"

Methos and Duncan stopped in mid argument. "What is it, Joe?" they chorused.

"What's a man got to do to get a drink around here?"

As expected, the question brought both Immortals squarely back to the present. Methos grinned mischievously. "Well, usually I make Mac take off his..."

"Meth-os!" The word was a warning.

"But for you, we'll gladly make an exception," Methos finished. He tucked his arm through Joe's. "Come on, Joe. I'll give you the ten-cent tour, and then we'll go see what the wine cellar holds." 

They walked through the doorway together.

***

It didn't take very long for Methos to give the promised tour. Joe dutifully ooed and ahhed over Methos's ultra modern office, the slightly less modern but unbelievably cozy kitchen, Mac's gym, and finally the vast underground wine cellar. There, at least, Joe's enthusiasm didn't have to be feigned. "Holy Cow!" Joe said, when he'd blown enough dust off the bottles to realize just what he was looking at it. "A single bottle of this could pay for a year of college for my oldest grandson. Even allowing for inflation by the time he gets there."

"Just how is little Joe doing?" Methos asked. He was crouching over a crate of beer in one corner, pulling staples with a crowbar while Joe wandered the shelves. "He's what, six years old now? Seven?"

"Try thirteen." Methos stared at him, mouth open. Joe smiled. "Yeah, I know. Think how I feel. It seems like just yesterday that Amy was getting married, and now I'm the grandfather of three. Time does have this way of flying by, doesn't it?"

"Tell me about it," Methos said wryly. Joe went back to inspecting the shelves. He thought about the ten-year-old bottle of Scotch he had safely hidden in the bottom of his bags, brought as a very late housewarming gift. Joe knew that both Mac and Methos would value it, but there was no point in embarrassing himself by bringing it out now. Maybe he'd leave it on his pillow when he left, and the couple could use it to toast his memory 100 years from now. Joe touched the cellar shelves tenderly, comforted by the thought that something of himself might stay here after his death.

"If you're not in the mood for wine or beer, we do have some harder stuff along the north wall," Methos called. "Scotch, bourbon, gin. Nothing's too good for your first meal on the Island."

Joe shook his head softly. "Nah, wine will be just fine," he said. "I'm actually not even supposed to have that. My arthritis pills all have great big yellow labels warning me against drinking alcohol. But I can hardly turn down an opportunity like this, now can I?" He rotated a few bottles so he could read the labels. A soft oath slipped out when he read the date on a dusty bottle of port.

"Which one are you looking at?" Methos asked. He left the beer crate to peer over Joe's shoulder, than smiled nostalgically. "Ah. Yes. That was one of mine."

Joe raised his eyebrows. He'd known that the Highlander had been a wine collector for years, but somehow he'd never imagined Methos as being the kind of person who carted bottles from place to place. *Must have had a secret stash when he was living in Paris,* Joe thought to himself. *Starving graduate student Adam Pierson, my…* "Yours?"

"Ours, now." The nostalgic look deepened. "Mac and I combined collections about five years ago."

"Wow." Joe whistled under his breath, thinking of the dollar value such a combination could represent. "I never would have thought you'd let a collection like this become community property, Methos. Is that the Immortal equivalent of a formal wedding ceremony?"

Methos grinned. "Something like that."

"He's still holding out on me, though," MacLeod called from the kitchen, his voice drifting down the cellar steps. "He's got a first edition 'Huckleberry Finn' stashed in a bank in Munich that he refuses to let me touch."

"I told you, MacLeod! You don't get your hands on my Twain until you build me a proper library!" Methos shouted back up the stairs, then looked sheepishly at Joe. "Sorry, Joe. Long-standing argument."

"Good god, man!" MacLeod's voice boomed from above. "I built yew an office with my own two hands, cutting and hewing every board..."

"Oh, lord. Not the Highland accent." Methos rolled his eyes. "He'll be going on about the running water and the Intranet in a minute."

"...complete with yer own damn bathroom and about a dozen wireless boosters..."

"What did I tell you?"

"...what more can yew possibly *want*, man?" The tirade ended abruptly as both Methos and Joe started laughing. A flushed Highland face appeared at the top of the stairs, spoon in one hand. (Despite his earlier protests to the contrary, Duncan had somehow ended up doing the cooking.) "All right, all right," Mac said, his voice dropping back to its more normal tones as he addressed his lover. "So I'm predictable. It's why you love me, you know. Quit laughing and pick out a wine, all right? Supper's almost ready."

***

In the end, they "liberated" a very fine old cabernet and several bottles of beer. The dinner MacLeod cooked was exquisite, with only Joe's repetitive feelings of deja vu to mar the occasion. It was eerie, and a little bit frightening, how easily Joe could imagine no time had passed at all. The two faces across the table had been unchanging for centuries, after all. Joe didn't even have to close his eyes to imagine they were back in Le Blues or Joe's Bar in Seacouver, sharing a friendly drink after surviving the latest Immortal crisis. Only his body reminded him that more than a decade had passed.

They retired to the living room after supper. Joe found himself drowsing in his chair as he watched his friends pursue their usual after-dinner pursuits. Mac knelt at the coffee table as he expertly cleaned and cared for his long un-used katana, Methos quietly muttered over something he was reading on his tablet in a corner. Joe wanted to stay awake and talk, but he was very tired after his trip. The Island's quiet combined with the gentle rhythms of his friends' work--oiled cloth slipping over blade, fingers tapping on touchscreen--conspired to lull Joe into drowsiness. He didn't fall asleep, not exactly, but his body grew warm and sluggish while his head grew heavy. He let it drop onto his shoulder while his mind drifted into the past, thinking about how the cozy domestic scene before him had come to be.

Duncan and Methos. God, there was a time when Joe had never thought he'd see the two of them standing in the same room without swords drawn, much less sharing more than a decade of domestic bliss. After the death of Liam O'Rourke, the two had gone for years without speaking. Joe had never been quite sure what had happened, but MacLeod's affection and patience for the old Immortal, shaky since the Horsemen's death, had suddenly evaporated. Several arguments had resulted in month after month of cold silence. Eventually Methos had given up altogether, killed off Adam Pierson, and moved to London to start a new life. For his part, Duncan had gone back to the States, starting a branch of Connor's antique shop in San Francisco that kept him out of Paris for much of the year. It seemed that the two could easily go through the rest of Joe's life without ever meeting again.

Oddly, it was during that time that Joe and Methos had become their closest. Joe smiled sleepily as he remembered. Now that he was old, he could afford to be sentimental about it: those years were some of the best of his life. Methos could easily have dropped him completely when he changed identities, but he hadn't. Joe had started teaching at the Paris Academy after the Watchers had formally retired him from the field, and Methos would cross the channel at least twice a month to spend weekends with him. The chess games, the beer binges, and the jokes they shared were all the stuff of very happy memories.

Then came 2002, and the Challenge to the MacLeods from Jacob Kell. Duncan had been devastated after Connor's death, close to suicidal. Joe and Methos had barely managed to get him away from that Kate woman before she took his head. "It's not good," Methos had told Joe, one long night when a full case of scotch imbibed by the Highlander and the resulting drunken sleep had been the only thing keeping Duncan from cutting off his own head, taking Methos's, or both. "He simply will not see that he has to go on."

"You've got to get him to holy ground," Joe answered. "He's in no condition to face a Challenge."

"I'd love to, but where? Running away to join a monastery is not exactly an option in his current state, Joe."

"There's the Island." Even then, Joe had always imagined the word with a capital I. It was that special a place. "Mac's always gone to it when he needed to retreat. I think you should take him there."

"I don't know, Joe. He's mourning Connor, and according to his Chronicle Connor visited the Island more than once. There might be memories..."

"There are going to be memories wherever he looks, Methos. Hell, the sum total of Connor's being is inside him now. He can't get away from it. Let him go someplace safe while he figures out what to do with it."

"All right." Methos looked grimly determined. "I'll take him, and try to stay with him until he comes to his senses. We may very well kill each other before the first day is out, but..."

"Just as long as it isn't the permanent sort of killing, Methos. I'm willing to accept anything else."

So Methos had swept Duncan away to his Island, and the rest was history. Evidently, Duncan wasn't the only one who came to his senses during that retreat. Sometime during the very eventful weeks that followed, Duncan and Methos had finally acknowledged the attraction they'd had for years, and figured out what they needed to do to live with it. The next thing Joe knew, Methos had announced that he was moving in with Duncan, permanently. 

Joe had held his breath. It was years before he could open his door without expecting see either Methos, freshly slung out and sarcastic, or Duncan, freshly abandoned and fuming, standing on his front step. But whatever difficulties the two Immortals had, they had worked them out. Time passed...

And now it was 2015, and Methos and MacLeod fit together like two halves of the same whole. Their love for each other was so obvious, shimmering in every word and deed. It wasn't an easy thing for Joe to see. Every look of affection that passed between them reminded Joe of just how empty of love his own life had been, of how many years he'd lived with no partner of his own. But there was also a kind of comfort in knowing that type of love really did exist, the type that warmed everyone around it like a cozy fire, even if Joe had never been lucky enough to find it for himself. He was glad he'd come, even if....even if...

Joe relaxed in his chair still further, basking in the feeling of comfort and acceptance that filled the whole house, letting it seep into his muscle and bones. His breathing slowed, and his head slipped forward to his chest.

He was asleep.

***

Duncan MacLeod finished his work on his katana and carefully, reverently, put it away, hanging it in the place of honor by the front door. It still felt strange, hanging the blade on the wall. For so many years, such a display would have been unthinkable. He'd always had to keep the katana within reach, even when sleeping and showering. Now it was different. Duncan never forgot the sword, never allowed dust to gather on the razor sharp edge, but when the blade was cared for he returned it to its place on the wall, instead of slipping it inside his coat or the special sheath beside his mattress. He gave the sword a little pat as he stepped away from the wall, admiring how it looked, safe and secure. The Island truly was a safe place, a refuge from the Game. It pleased MacLeod that his longtime Japanese companion had found a refuge here, as well.

The katana hung crossed on the wall with Methos's Ivanhoe. It was an odd combination aesthetically, but the sight of it always pleased MacLeod down to the soul. In his youth, his clansmen's arms were always displayed thus at the door; having his sword crossed with Methos's meant that they really were home, really were a unit. After so many years of watching Methos pick up and leave for Bora Bora at a moment's notice, Duncan still had to marvel that he'd managed to keep him here for so long. If Methos hadn't come to rescue him from the Sanctuary...if he hadn't stayed when Duncan was crippled from Connor's death...they might never have had the chance to discover their real feelings for each other. And Duncan would have missed out on the truest love of his long life.

Duncan reached for the Ivanhoe and slid it off the wall. Now that the katana was attended to, Methos's blade deserved the same attention. Caring for another Immortal's sword was as intimate an act as making love; it had taken years for Methos to trust him enough to perform this task. Now that Duncan had that trust, he reveled in it, knowing that it meant Methos had truly accepted him as the partner of his life. He sat down by the fire, gently laying the blade across the soft cloths he'd prepared.

From the corner where he was going over the day's translation work, Methos spoke softly, careful not to wake the slumbering Watcher. "Duncan. Something is badly wrong."

Duncan nodded as he straightened out his tools, making sure everything was easily within reach. He'd known this was coming. "With Joe?" he asked, just to be sure he was following his lover's train of thought. Methos nodded. Duncan sighed. "Yes. Yes, I know."

"You *know*?"

"Well, of course I do." Duncan kept his voice soft, hands busily working over the surface of the blade. "Just because I have the tact not to greet him with 'You look like hell, Joe' doesn't mean I didn't notice."

"I was just so surprised," Methos answered. "He's changed so much, lost so much weight since we visited him in Paris. I felt like I was hugging a skeleton. He must be down at least forty pounds..."

"Shhh," Duncan warned, seeing Joe twitch in his chair. They both waited until the old Watcher was breathing regularly again. "More like fifty," Duncan said, even more quietly than before. "I could feel all his ribs when I lifted him out of the rowboat. He's pretty weak, too. I know it's hard for him to walk on uneven ground, especially now that the arthritis in his hips has gotten so bad, but he got out of breath after just ten feet. And he didn't even argue when I picked up his luggage. The old Joe would never have let me get away with that."

"I know. His skin is pale and ashy, too, and his hair..." Methos slammed a hand into his desk, clearly frustrated. "Damn it! Why didn't he tell me when he started the chemotherapy? I could have done something. My clinical training is long out of date, but I could have at least talked to his doctors. Made sure he was getting the best care..."

"Chemotherapy?" Now it was Duncan’s turn to be shocked. "You think Joe has cancer?"

"I think there's a good chance. I do know the signs, Duncan."

Duncan nodded shakily. In addition to his medical training, Methos had watched Alexa die of the disease, and who knew how many other friends and lovers before that. If anyone was capable of a diagnosis on sight, it was Methos. "Tomorrow I'll call Amy, find out who Joe’s primary care physician is," Methos said quietly. "It's next to impossible to get anything out of a doctor without a signed HEPA form these days, but it's possible that 'Doctor Adams' might be able to pull some strings, get more information than a layman could. There might still be something I can do." He took a deep breath. "At the very least, it'll be good to know what the official diagnosis is. Who knows. I might even find out that I'm wrong." He stared into the room's large stone fireplace, watching the flames flicker. "But if I'm not..."

He didn't have to finish the sentence. Duncan laid the sword down, unable to speak, knowing that his shaking hands would not allow him to continue his painstaking work. Methos got up and walked to his side, gently pulling Duncan's head to his chest. Duncan let his tears well up, comforted by Methos's closeness. "Oh, god, Duncan," Methos murmured into his hair. "I've lost too many like this."

"Aye, love. I know. I know." Duncan pulled away, wiping at his eyes. They looked at the snoring Watcher, so suddenly, frighteningly frail; he truly was nothing at all like the robust man they both so clearly remembered. "At least...if you're right...then it explains the way he looks. I couldn't believe how much he'd changed when I saw him. It made me think decades had passed instead of just a few years."

"We’ve both been out of the world a long time, Duncan," Methos reminded him. "It's easy to forget how quickly the years can pass for mortals."

"Yes." Mac looked up at his lover. "Methos...if it's true...why didn't he say anything to us about it earlier? We would have understood."

"Does it really matter?" Methos's hands made slow, comforting circles on Duncan's back. "I'm more worried about why he decided to say something now."

"He already told you then? But I thought..."

"No. No, my love. Joe hasn't said a word to me that you haven't heard." Methos lifted a hand to gesture helplessly at the room. "But he's *here*, made the trip for the first time in nearly a dozen years, even though we invite him practically every month. Why come now? Today?" He returned his hands to Duncan's shoulders. "There has to be a reason."

Duncan swallowed hard. "You think he's dying," he said. "That he came to say goodbye."

"Yes."

The word seemed so terrible, so final. Duncan's tears started falling freely. Methos held him while they did, silent, comforting. At last Duncan recovered enough to be able to speak. "Methos? What are we going to do?"

"Well, first we're going to get Joe into a comfortable bed," Methos answered with the smallest trace of humor. "His back will never recover if we let him sleep all night in that chair. Then...we're going to go find a comfortable bed for ourselves." The ancient's voice softened. "I need to feel you hold me."

Duncan nodded. He needed Methos to hold him as well, give him reassurance while he tried to make peace with this. But something made him ask the next question. "And in the morning?"

"That can wait until the morning." Methos dropped a kiss on Duncan 's forehead.. "Come, Duncan. Joe needs you...and then I'll need you." He walked to the Watcher's side and spoke loudly. "Joe? Joe? Time to get you to bed, old friend. The pillows are waiting."

Joe woke up just enough to grumble at them, but he didn't resist. They both put an arm under each of Joe's shoulders and helped him stumble to the guest room.

***

Methos's early morning call to Amy did not go well.

This was really only to be expected. Not only had Joe's militantly traditional Watcher daughter never condoned Joe's relationship with the two Immortals, Methos had also called at an ungodly early hour. The last thing Methos wanted was for Joe to wake up and overhear the conversation. And really, Methos thought wryly after listening to Amy's sharp, clipped voice for several minutes, he honestly wouldn't have minded sleeping through it himself. Amy clearly thought that he and Duncan were going to get Joe's head chopped off, or at the very least let him go out in the cold without a sweater. Well, he could turn that suspicion to his own advantage. "Listen, Amy," he said sorrowfully, knowing perfectly well that she would believe any story that revolved around his and Duncan's incompetence. "I did something incredibly stupid this morning. I knocked Joe's arthritis prescription into the sink..."

Her "I knew it" sniff was music to Methos's ears. Duncan, who was sitting nearby listening to the call on speaker, grinned broadly. "Yes, it was very careless of me," Methos said humbly. "The worst part if it was that the lid wasn't quite screwed on. All the pills went down the drain..." This time the sniff was a gasp. "I've called the local pharmacy of course, but they won't refill it without Joe's doctor's authorization. I was wondering if you could get me his doctor's phone number...no, no, there's no need for you to call. I know how hard it is to get hold of medical professionals these days. There's no need to waste your valuable time just because of my mistake...yes, just the number of his primary care physician. Thank you, Amy. Give my best to little Joe and the girls."

Methos wrote down the number and hung up. Duncan tickled him lightly in the ribs. "You, my love, are devious."

"Which is why you love *me*," Methos returned. His fingers hesitated over the keypad. "Duncan? Maybe you could go get us some breakfast. I wasn't lying when I bitched to Amy about how hard it is to contact doctors these days. I'll probably be playing phone tag with nurses and receptionists for the next hour at least."

"Sounds like a plan." Duncan went down to the kitchen to fix orange juice and eggs, making sure Joe was still soundly asleep as he passed the Watcher's room. When he returned to the office, Methos was frowning, deeply involved in a conversation that involved more medical jargon than Duncan could follow, even with his military medic's training. He set the plate and glass down at his lover's side and gently rubbed one of Methos's tense shoulders. Then he sat down to wait for the conversation to return to English.

Eventually, it did. "All right, Doctor," Methos said. "It does sound like you've done everything you can. Thank you. Joe's very important to us. We greatly appreciate the care you've taken of him."

"No thanks is necessary, Doctor," said the light female voice at the other end of the phone. "Joe's a good friend of mine, too. Did you know that right after he was diagnosed, he came by the wards to play his guitar for the other patients? Got everyone singing along, too. It was some of the most amazing music I'd ever heard."

"That sounds just like him," Methos agreed, and only Duncan heard the slight tremor in the words. He took his lover's hand. Methos cleared his throat. "Ah. Doctor Robin. Just between you and me...do you have a time span in mind?"

"Now, now, Doctor," Dr. Robin chided. "You know better than that. Ethical doctors don't give time limits. The patients have a tendency to take our guesses for Higher Truth, and that makes them give up when they really should be fighting. But if you promise to keep this just between you and me..." Her voice lowered. "He ought to have four more months. That might stretch to six, and when it comes to Joe Dawson's will to live, I wouldn't have any difficulty in believing in seven or eight. But four is about average for this stage in the disease."

"Thank you, Doctor Robin," Methos said gratefully. "That's all I needed to know."

"As I said, it's no problem," the woman answered. "Feel free to call me anytime you have any more questions. And..." she hesitated. "Take good care of Joe, all right? He's special."

"I know. We will."

They exchanged good-byes, and Methos ended the call. He leaned back wearily in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. "Well," he said. "You heard."

"Four months." Duncan shook his head softly. "My, god, Methos. That's no time at all!"

"It's actually a fairly optimistic prognosis," Methos said sourly. "Dr. Robin told me that Joe's been in treatment off and on for the last three years. He's already done several rounds of chemo and radiation therapy. He could have done one more, but everyone pretty much agreed it was pointless."

"I'll go wake him up," Duncan said, starting to rise.

Methos frowned. "Why on earth would you want to do that?"

"To talk to him," Duncan said, startled that Methos would even have to ask. "We've got to tell him that we know."

Methos grabbed his arm. "Don't you dare," he said.

And the argument began.

Methos's position was simple. If Joe hadn't told them about his illness so far, it must be because he had a good reason not to tell them. Forcing the issue would only cause him more pain. Duncan's position was also simple: he thought Methos's argument was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. Friends told each other the truth, didn’t they? If Joe wouldn't bring it up, then they had to. Besides, what reason could Joe possibly have for keeping them in the dark?

"I don't know, but he's been doing it for more than three years now," Methos retorted. "Whatever his reasons are, they've been strong enough to keep him silent all this time. Duncan, rushing in and demanding the exposure of a secret this powerful NEVER works out. Haven't you learned *anything* from me?"

Duncan flinched. Methos had scored a direct hit. "Maybe I haven't learned enough," he admitted. "But Methos...what do we *do*?"

"See to it that Joe has the best vacation he's ever had," Methos answered. "Just like we originally planned. Feed him, sing with him, talk to him. Just keep your big fat Highland mouth shut about this one little detail, all right? When Joe's ready to talk, he will."

Duncan didn't like it. Keeping silent about something as important as this was against his entire nature. But...his irritating, annoying, and sometimes surprisingly wise lover did have a point. Duncan's habit of rushing in where angels feared to tread *did* sometimes cause more pain than it relieved. He bit his lip for a moment, then let it go. "All right," he said. "I'll keep quiet. But I still don't understand. If Joe doesn't want us to know about the cancer, why did he even come?

"He's looking for something," Methos said matter-of-factly. "That's why he came to us."

"Looking for something?" Duncan thought hard, then looked horrified. "Not...you don't think...Immortality?

"Of course not! Duncan, how could that thought even cross your mind? Joe's been a Watcher a long time. He knows that's impossible. And even if it wasn't--" Methos paused, and Duncan knew he was thinking of the Methuselah stone, and his abortive attempt to save Alexa-- "he'd turn it down." A sigh. "He's a very wise man, our Joseph."

"Yes. He is," Duncan agreed. "All right. So he doesn't want to be Immortal. What could he possibly be looking for, then?"

"If I knew that, don't you think I'd have already given it to him?" Methos snapped, his patience at an end. Duncan flushed, instantly ashamed of himself. Methos rested his forehead in his palm for a tired instant, then looked at Duncan with an apology in his eyes. "Don't worry, Mac," he said. "We'll figure it out. Or else Joe will tell us, as soon as he knows what it is himself." Methos’s jaw hardened. "I won't let him leave without it."

His lover's expression of determination touched Duncan greatly. Methos, unlike Duncan, only rarely adopted another as his own. But when he did, his need to protect and provide was just as great as the Highlander's. "*We* won't let him leave without it," he said quietly, reminding, and Methos bent his head in acknowledgement. "But Methos, we don't have much time to figure it out. We only have another week before he's supposed to go home to Amy and the grand kids."

"I'll hide the boat."

***

Duncan did his best. Over the next several days he became a dedicated disciple of the ancient and sadly under-appreciated art of Keeping One's Mouth Shut and One's Thoughts To One's Self. The Highlander said nothing when Joe repeatedly fell asleep right after dinner, and retired to his room for a nap after each lunch. He said nothing when, after the first night's celebratory meal, Joe hardly ate enough to sustain a bird. He even said nothing when he walked into the guest room and accidentally saw Joe sorting through a truly staggering collection of vitamins and pills. It was difficult, far more difficult than he'd ever imagined, but Duncan kept quiet. And in return, Joe stayed quiet, too.

As the week wore on, Duncan began to believe Methos might just have to hide the boat after all. Joe, despite his unusual fatigue, seemed to be doing his best to appear unchanged. He laughed and joked just as he had in the old days and entertained them with his guitar, even singing horrible duets with Methos. Duncan often had to shake his head at this last, which usually involved "creative" renditions of Monty Python songs. "All right," he said one afternoon when the "wit" had been flowing rather freely. "I can just barely appreciate the fact that an allegedly human mind came up with "Every Sperm is Sacred." What I can't understand is why both of you would have memorized all the words--and felt it necessary to create new verses."

"Why, Mac, 'Every Sperm is Sacred' is one of the world's great protest songs," Methos answered, wounded. "It's an incredibly brave, albeit satirical, statement against Western culture's reproductive double standards. Future generations will place it right up there with 'Where Have all the Flowers Gone'."

"It's a regular 'We Shall Overcome,'" Joe contributed.

"Exactly." Methos nodded. "Your problem, Duncan MacLeod, is that you don't appreciate true culture."

"Fine, fine." Duncan was not about to get drawn into yet another 'opera versus Queen' debate. He never, ever won. "I'm an uncultured barbarian child. I know. You've told me. But would you please have mercy on my ear drums and sing something else?"

Methos sighed theatrically. "I guess that means "The Spam Song" is out of the question, Joe."

"Awwww." Joe feigned disappointment, then grinned wolfishly. "All right. We'll just have to pick another classic. Do you know anything by the Beejees?"

"No, no, no!" Duncan waved his arms so hard that his own seat was seriously threatened. "Absolutely not. No disco. Do that, and I'll cut off Methos's beer supply."

Two pairs of eyes consulted each other in the firelight. "Oh dear," Methos said in a low tone. "I think he means it."

"Yeah." Joe nodded. "I think he does."

"We'd better stick to a true classic, then. From a group even Mac can agree contained some of the finest songwriters of the twentieth century." He stood up. "Beatles, Joe. Key of A flat."

Joe obligingly struck the chord. It hummed in the room for a moment, and then Methos began to sing. "When I get older, losing my hair...*many* years from now...

Both Duncan and Joe laughed aloud at the wry twist Methos gave to the word "many". Joe picked up the tune. Appeased, Duncan relaxed into his chair, listening as Methos's light clear tenor filled the room:

"Will you still be sending me a Valentine?  
Birthday greetings, bottle of wine?  
If I'd been out 'til quarter to three,  
Would you lock the door?  
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,  
When I'm sixty-four?"

Methos had a startlingly good singing voice, one Duncan heard all too rarely. He listened as Methos sang of the idyllic Lonely Hearts Club retirement: "Doing the garden, digging the weeds--who could ask for more?" and chuckled softly when Methos winked at him. The old Immortal much preferred reading to gardening, and getting Methos to pull weeds was even harder than getting him to chop wood. When the song ended, Duncan applauded loudly. So did Joe.

Methos bowed modestly. "Thank you, thank you. You're much too kind," he said. "Well, Highlander? Will you?"

"Will I what?"

"Need me? Feed me? Other verbs that end in 'eed', even if I can't think of any at this moment?"

"You know I will," Duncan answered. "Although, the song says 'sixty four', not 'five thousand and sixty-four', old man."

"What about six thousand and sixty-four?"

"The answer will still be yes."

"You know, when I first heard Sergeant Pepper's in 1967, sixty-four seemed like an impossible old age," Joe said suddenly. His voice was surprisingly husky. Duncan frowned. After the humor that had been flowing through the room, Joe's sober tone came like a dash of cold water. "Now that I'm on the other side of it, it feels like sixty-four was just the beginning of things." He cleared his throat. "Methos?"

Methos hadn't missed the Watcher's change of mood, either. He looked worried. "Yes, Joe?"

"Let me have a solo."

Duncan and Methos exchanged glances. Methos shook his head ever so slightly, and Duncan pressed his lips firmly closed. "Sure thing, Joe," Methos said agreeably, but Duncan knew he was just as apprehensive as he was. "What are you going to sing?"

"Another classic. You'll recognize it in a single bar." Joe laboriously wrestled his guitar back into position, grunting as he lifted the instrument onto his lap. Duncan almost stood up to help, but a look from Methos stopped him. Joe played a few notes of introduction. Methos stiffened. Duncan frowned--he thought he recognized the light, simple melody, but he wasn't sure. Then Joe began to sing:

"Yesterday  
All my troubles seemed so far away.  
Now--I need a place to hide away.  
Oh, I believe in Yesterday."

Duncan froze. He looked over at Methos. The old Immortal was sitting on the edge of his chair, his face a mask of shock. Duncan could sympathize. The song had always touched him deeply--it touched every Immortal whose heart was still capable of feeling--but tonight, knowing what he and Methos did, it was almost too much. The Highlander's breath actually got caught in his chest, and it seemed he might never get it to move freely again. He stared, and listened, too shaken even to cry.

"Suddenly  
I'm not half the man I used to be.  
There's a shadow hanging over me.  
Oh, yesterday came suddenly..."

Strangely, Joe didn't sound particularly sad. Instead his voice was peaceful, calm, simply telling it the way it was. And maybe there was something else. The small part of Duncan MacLeod's mind that was still capable of thought noticed how often Joe's eyes flickered to Methos, and how the timber of Joe’s voice changed whenever he came to the chorus: "Why she had to go--I don't know, she wouldn't say. I said something wrong--now I long for yesterday." The words seemed to mean something more to Joe than the rest of the song, something Duncan didn't understand. Could Joe have a lost love he was remembering, now that his own life was so close to an end? Then the Highlander saw the old mortal's eyes tear, and suddenly he understood after all.

It was love written on Joe's face.

For Methos.

Joe was in love with Methos.

***

Methos had once told Duncan that some songs were always too short. It didn't matter who was doing the singing, or how many reprises the musicians stuck in. Some things just never lasted long enough. Joe played the final notes, letting them hum away into silence, and Duncan finally understood what his lover had meant. The sudden quiet was almost as harsh as a sword blow. It was terrible, all the more so because it was the second such blow Duncan had suffered in the last few minutes. *Joe loved Methos.* When did he start? How long had this been going on? Mind still reeling from the force of his revelation, Duncan sat in a trance, not really hearing or seeing anything in the room. He didn't hear the way the poignant silence stretched on and on, until Methos suddenly cleared his throat and began a spirited rendition of "Yellow Submarine"; he even missed the way Joe's voice leaped to join Methos in the song, two male voices working hard to sooth away the awkwardness. Duncan had no idea how many songs the pair sang after that or even what their titles were. It was only when the music finally ceased altogether that he came back to himself enough to hear Joe speaking. "I think that about does me in for the night, gents," Joe said. "Thanks for a great sing along, Methos, MacLeod. I'm off to bed."

"Bed?" Duncan stared at the clock gently ticking away on the mantel. "But it's only..."

A gentle touch on his arm silenced him. "It *is* getting late," Methos said, and Duncan realized with a pang of shame that Joe's face was gray and exhausted, his hands trembling with fatigue. "Have a good sleep, Joe." Joe nodded. He got to his feet and slowly hobbled from the room. Methos watched him go, then turned to Duncan. "Come, Duncan. I'll help you clean up. Then we'll go to bed too. All right?"

“All right.”

After the music and the laughter, the Immortals' bedroom seemed ridiculously quiet. Duncan undressed quickly, stripping off his clothes and changing into sweats. Methos was standing in front of their bedroom mirror, the strangely preoccupied expression on his face reflected clearly in the glass. Duncan regarded him thoughtfully... then he went over to him, placed broad hands on the pale shoulders, and kissed the elegant, arching neck. Methos leaned back gratefully into the embrace, and Duncan took a moment to breath in the unique scent of his lover's skin. "Thank you, Duncan."

"For what?"

"For not arguing with me about coming to bed early. I know you aren't really tired yet. It's just that when Joe's asleep, the house gets so..."

"Quiet." Duncan finished for him. "I know. It's like that for me, as well."

"Strange that it should be that way when we lived more than a decade on this Island without him," Methos said, irony giving his voice an extra edge. "But now when he's alone in his room the rest of the house gets too quiet to bear." He looked at Duncan sadly. "I keep thinking about the music, Duncan, what a loss it will be to the world when Joe dies. *Why* on earth didn't we ever see to it that the man got a major recording contract before it was too late?"

Duncan smiled. "Did we ever have that kind of power?"

Methos blinked. "No, I guess not. Not really. But back in the 'nineties I still knew some people, from my time with the Stones. I could have tried." The ancient shook his head wearily. "It's such a shame, Duncan. His music ought to be out there for millions to enjoy."

"Joe didn't want that," Duncan answered. "For him it's always been about the songs, not his personality or looks. Turning him into a pop star would have ruined everything he worked for." Methos nodded unhappily and began folding the shirt he'd just taken off. Duncan stroked his shoulder. "I think I finally figured out what he came here for, though."

Methos twisted around to face him, looked up at him eagerly. "What? Does it have something to do with the music? You know, when he was playing tonight, I had this thought..."

"No, Methos. It was nothing to do with the music, the bar or anything else.” Duncan took a deep breath. It had to be said, and now was as good a time as any. “It's you, Methos. He came for you."

Methos gave him a perplexed frown. "Come again?"

"Joe's in love with you. That's why he's here."

The old Immortal did not react to this news as Duncan had anticipated. A spark of anger flared in the beautiful hazel eyes. For a moment Duncan thought Methos was actually going to push him away. Then Methos simply slid out of his arms and walked toward their big antique dresser, fussing with the discarded shirt. "Not funny, MacLeod," he said. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Yes, I do. I saw the way he was looking at you tonight, Methos. It was written so clearly on his face. He loves you."

The bare, muscled shoulders shrugged. "Yes, all right. He loves both of us. As old friends. Maybe even as brothers. Nothing more."

"No. Oh, no, my love. There's a whole lot more to it than that.” Duncan took a few steps forward, needing to be close to him, needing to make him understand. “Joe doesn't look at you the way a man looks at a beloved friend. He looks at you the way a man looks at a lover. And not just any lover. He looks at you the way a man looks at the greatest love of his life." Duncan reached out and touched Methos on the elbow, feeling the oddest combination of love and pain. "It really doesn't surprise me," he said softly. "After all, I look at you in exactly the same way."

"Duncan..." Methos held the shirt to his chest for second, as if futilely trying to cover up his nakedness, and then dropped it to the floor. He couldn't seem to come up with anything more to say.

Duncan gently pulled him into his arms. After a moment of stiffness, Methos dropped his head to his shoulder. "I suppose I really should have figured it out sooner," Duncan said conversationally, stroking the smooth dark hair under his fingertips. "When I think back on it, it’s easy to see that Joe has always had a special place in his heart for you. The only really startling thing is that I never noticed how deep those feelings went. I guess I was just so in love with you myself, I never even thought..." He realized that the body in his arms was shaking ever so slightly, and he reached out to tilt Methos's face up with his hand. The pain he saw there shocked him senseless. "Methos?"

"Duncan." Despite his obvious distress, Methos's voice was measured, carefully striving for calm. "I am only going to tell you this one more time. I don't care what you saw, or what you think you know. Joe is not in love with me. And you are never going to mention this subject again. All right?"

"All right?" Duncan was confused. "No, Methos, it is *not* all right. I’ve let you keep me quiet about Joe’s illness, but this is different. We have to talk about it, have to figure out a way to help Joe get through it. It’s going to hurt him a lot when he realizes you don’t feel the same way, but maybe together we can...” Methos's eyes shifted guiltily away, and suddenly Duncan knew everything he needed to. "Oh my god," he said, not quite able to comprehend the meaning of the words but knowing they were true, told by the anguish on Methos's face as clearly as Joe's singing had told him the Watcher's secret earlier. "You do feel the same. You're in love with him, too."

For a moment Methos just looked at him, pain so eloquent Duncan felt his chest ache in sympathy. Then the old Immortal looked down at the old pine floor boards, worn smooth with age and traffic. A single tear rolled down his nose and splashed on the wood by his feet. It was followed by a sob.

Duncan stared. Then he gathered his lover firmly into his arms.

***

Methos cried with more freedom than any man Duncan had ever known. Duncan sometimes wondered why this was. Could his beloved have grown up in some unthinkably wise culture where male tears were actually honored, instead of forbidden as they had been to a Highland chieftain's son? Or had Methos simply decided to undo his childhood conditioning at some point, knowing that the ability to cry with his whole body and soul would serve him well if he wanted to survive the centuries with his heart intact? He didn't do it often, but when he did the power of his sobs and tremors always left Duncan startled, shaken, and awed by the strength it took to experience such intense emotions so bravely. It also left him wistful. *Maybe, if I don't mess this up and I get to live with you for another few hundred years, you'll teach me how to cry, my love* he thought, using all the formidable strength in his chest and arms to keep Methos upright as he sobbed. *I think it might be a useful thing to know. *

Somehow or other, Duncan managed to get Methos to the bed. He held the shaking body close, not trying to speak or interrupt the storm, just making gentle soothing sounds into Methos’s hair. When the sobs at last started to subside and Methos sat up on his own, Duncan wiped a stray tear from the other man's cheek and looked deeply into his eyes. Part of him didn't want to ask any more questions; part of him just wanted to let the whole issue lie, let Methos gather his grief back into his body and mourn silently, without another word needing to be said. But the other part knew he had to get Methos to talk about it in order to heal, and anyway he couldn't allow his earlier evasions to stand. If their history had taught Duncan anything, it was this: there could be no secrets between them. Not if they wanted their relationship to last. "How long, beloved?" he asked gently. "How long?"

"A long time, Highlander. Since about a decade before you first arrived to complicate my life. Since Adam Pierson's first week at the Watcher Academy, to be exact." The words were shaky, but easy and unrestrained. Duncan felt a tension he hadn't known he was holding suddenly dissipate as he realized Methos wasn't trying to lie. *Thank god*, he thought. *I finally learned how to do the right thing. We're going to be all right after all. God, but that was close.* The dark head swung to face him. "Duncan, you must know this, must believe it in your heart. I swear to you it's true. The moment you appeared to warn me about Kalas, I loved you with all my being. Even during those years when we weren't talking to each other. You were always on my mind..."

"I know, beloved. I know. It was the same for me." Duncan answered. "But that didn't mean I stopped loving Tessa, lost to me as she was...and I know it didn't stop you from loving Alexa. It was only my own blindness that kept me from realizing that you hadn't stopped loving Joe, as well."

"How could you have? I never said a thing to you about it. Not one single thing."

"You shouldn't have had to. Methos, words don't matter, not where you're considered. You're much too good at twisting them. But you can't hide the way you act." Methos opened his mouth, looking like he was about to argue. Duncan stopped him. "I know you, beloved,” he said. “You never lift a finger to help anyone who doesn't matter deeply to you. But you've been helping Joe for as long as I've known you. You looked after him when Richie died, took a head to protect his daughter, kept in touch even after you started your new life in London... and you're still taking care of him, interrogating his doctors even as you fight me to protect his privacy. Methos, it's *obvious*. The only amazing thing is that I didn't see it sooner." Slowly, carefully, Methos nodded his head, teeth gently piercing his bottom lip. Duncan gave Methos's hand a reassuring squeeze. "How did the two of you meet, anyway? Neither of you ever told me."

"Didn’t we?” Duncan shook his head. “I suppose that's because it's really not that exciting a story. Certainly it was nowhere near as dramatic as the events that brought you to my door. It was all absurdly, ridiculously ordinary." Methos wiped at his eyes, flinching as his fingers touched the sensitive, reddened tissue around his nose. In a few moments it would heal, but for now it was still sore, and Duncan winced in mute sympathy. "I was attending my first year Academy orientation. Joe came by to lecture all us new recruits about the joys and perils of field work.” A faint smile touched the old Immortal’s lips. “By the time he left the stage, I was smitten."

"Smitten?"

"Smitten. Intrigued. Captivated. Charmed. Pick any word you like. It will probably apply." Methos sniffled and looked out across the room, brilliant hazel eyes focusing on something Duncan couldn't see. "He was so beautiful, Duncan, so very beautiful. You have no idea."

*No,* Duncan thought. *I don't think I do.* Gently he reached into the bedside table for a handkerchief. Methos jumped when the drawer closed with a bit too loud a noise, but he took the cloth gratefully. "Tell me."

"I'm not sure I can," Methos said honestly. "Joe had a strength, a...a grace that was obvious to everyone who met him, but was almost impossible to describe. He was certainly handsome physically, but there was so much more to it than that. I mean, all you had to do was look at him to realize he'd been terribly hurt by Vietnam, both inside and out… but by the time I met him something had clicked in his head and he'd come to terms with it, in a way very few veterans ever do. He'd made a conscious decision to trade pain for hope, and the results of that decision shone through everything he did. Then there was his passion for the Watchers, his love of books and Immortal history, and finally there was his music..." Methos trailed off, gave Duncan a little apologetic shrug. "I'm sorry. I'm not explaining very well."

"No," Duncan said thoughtfully. "I think you're doing great." He cleared his throat. "Were you ever lovers?”

“Good god, no!”

The vehemence of Methos’s answer startled Duncan. “Why not?” he asked, hardly believing he was really asking the question, but knowing that he had to just the same. “If you felt that way about him…and he felt that way about you…”

“Ah, how quickly they forget,” Methos said wryly. “Duncan, it was the 80’s. The 1980’s?” Duncan frowned, not understanding. Methos rolled his eyes. “You really don’t remember what it was like, do you. Or maybe you just never noticed, still being a card carrying member of Clan Heterosexual. Duncan, in 1984 there was no such thing as a legal civil union between members of the same gender, no openly gay characters on television. The whole damn western world was involved in a backlash against the progress the homosexual community had made during the seventies. Joe may be missing his legs, but he's always had one hell of a right hook...which is exactly what I would have gotten if I'd been idiot enough to make a pass at him. The Watchers were not a particularly gay-friendly organization in those days. Joe would not have thanked me for casting any doubt on his straight and narrow credentials." Methos slumped. "Besides. Joe *didn’t* feel the same way about me, no matter how obsessed I was with him. I was firmly ensconced in the role of Adam Pierson, wet-behind-the-ears Academy student, and I’m more than smart enough to spot a hopeless cause when I see one. There was no way Joe would ever have been interested in me, even if he had been willing to take the risk…"

"Methos!"

"Duncan, it's true. Adam Pierson was nothing special. Joe and I became friends, yes, but only because we liked the same beer and the same music. He invited me to a few poker parties. I helped him out with a few research projects. That was all there was to it." Methos shrugged bleakly. "We never would have become anything more than co-workers if you hadn't told him my secret, thereby stimulating his protective instincts and adding me to his Pet Immortal list. Even then, it took him years to trust me again after he learned the truth."

"You're wrong, Methos," Duncan said positively. "I think Joe Dawson thought Adam Pierson was something very special indeed. What’s more, I think you knew that. Even way back then.” Methos’s mouth dropped open. Duncan held up his hands to stop him speaking. “The only reason you convinced yourself he didn't was because you were an Immortal and he was a Watcher, and you were terrified of what would happen to both of you if you let him get too close. And you're still lying to yourself about it today. Still denying what we both know is true."

For a moment Methos looked furious. Duncan almost expected him to take a swing at him. Then Methos's anger suddenly dissipated, leaving only an intense, weary sadness in its wake. "Maybe I am," he admitted hollowly. "Joe's death is going to be...very difficult for me, Duncan. He’s the only mortal in centuries to have known exactly who and what I was and to still have wanted to be my friend. It's going to be hard enough to loose that friendship, without wondering what could have been."

Methos looked so forlorn, so woebegone, that Duncan felt his heart twist. The Highlander felt that they were being drawn rapidly to a cusp…and he wondered, just for a moment, if he was going to be strong enough to make the right decision. Then he took one look at his partner and knew that there was only one decision to be made. He took a deep breath and balled his hands into fists, hiding them behind his back so Methos couldn’t see. "You don't have to wonder, Methos."

Methos’s head snapped around so quickly Duncan was afraid he’d get whiplash. "Excuse me?"

"I said, you don't have to wonder what might have been. There's still time. Not a lot, I grant you, but some. Enough." Duncan felt his fists relax. Now that he had started, it all seemed so much easier. He knew he had made the right choice. "Go to him. Tell him what you've told me. Now. Tonight.” He took another deep breath. “And find out what you could have had, if you hadn't been so afraid."

If it hadn't been such a serious moment, Duncan would have run for the camera. It was rare that he got the chance to see his normally calm and composed partner look so utterly astounded. "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Methos said slowly. "Are you really suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

"Of course I am. I’m suggesting that you go to Joe’s room, say everything to him that you just said to me. And then do whatever it takes to see that he believes you." Methos stared at him. "Methos, there's a man lying in our guest bedroom who loves you. He has for a very long time. And now he's dangerously close to dying without knowing that you return his feelings. Are you going to pay him back for all his loyalty by staying silent?"

"No, but... Duncan, I don't think you understand. These...feelings...I have for our friend Joe. They aren't the chaste, brotherly sorts of things I think you're envisioning. There's also a hell of a lot of physical attraction, even now." He swallowed. "And I am not a saint."

"You think I didn't know that?"

"Well..."

"I *do* know, Methos. I know you, and you've never been able to completely separate your body from your heart. It's part of why you've lived so long. And part of why you're so damn attractive to everyone." The Highlander sighed. "Methos, why do you think he *came* here?"

"Not for this! Duncan MacLeod, if you think Joe left his family and doctors just to have one last tumble with my five-thousand-year-old carcass, you are sadly mistaken!"

"Am I? It's a very fine carcass," Duncan returned. Methos glared at him. "All right, no, I don't think that's the whole reason," he admitted. "Joe also came to say goodbye, to share some last drinks and songs with old friends. But *mostly* he came to see you. To have one more chance to show you how he feels." Duncan took a deep breath. "If those feelings take a physical form, then... good. That's the way it should be. It's all right, Methos. Go to him, do whatever the two of you decide you need to do. I'll stay here. I won't mind a bit."

Methos was quiet for a long moment. Then, almost pleadingly: "You really don't mind?"

"I would have, a dozen years or so ago," Duncan answered honestly. "Back then I was so afraid of losing you, it seemed like an absolute miracle every time you were still beside me when I woke up in the morning. I would have gone crazy if I thought anyone else had a piece of your heart. But now? We belong to each other, Methos, no matter who else comes into our lives. Nothing can change that." He stepped forward and gently touched the other Immortal's cheek. "Go to Joe. He needs you."

Methos leaned into the touch for a moment, then kissed Duncan lightly and solemnly on the lips. Duncan patted his back reassuringly. Methos slipped on a robe and fled down the hall.

***

Joseph Dawson lay awake in the cabin's comfortable ground floor spare room, pondering the great fallibility of modern prescription drugs.

He'd taken the sleeping pill the moment he'd reached his bedroom, knowing that tonight's little sing-along had been a big mistake, knowing he'd given away much too much. The faces of his Immortal audience when they recognized the first few bars of "Yesterday" had told him that. Ah, hell. Joe knew he was going to have to break the news about the cancer sometime…but damn it all, he certainly didn't want to do it tonight. As for the rest, namely his ridiculous, near-childish unrequited love for Methos...Joe didn't EVER want to bring that up, and if he let the Immortals corner him yet that night he might not be able to stop himself. So he had taken the sleeping pill, hoping it would quickly carry him into a sleep not even the most determined, sword-wielding Immortal could disturb. If Methos and Duncan couldn't wake him, they couldn't pin him down, and he would never have to say the things he didn’t want to say. It seemed like the perfect plan.

The trouble was, sometimes prescription sleeping pills just don't work. Or else they only work for an hour or so, after which a man can be wide awake until dawn…

Joe sighed, groping for the switch on the bedside lamp. He stared at the old-fashioned wind-up clock MacLeod insisted on having on the night table and groaned. Crap. It wasn't even ten thirty yet! Joe looked at his valise, wondering how much damage it would do if he took just one more pill. After all, it wasn't as if it mattered anymore if he got addicted. But then, he didn't want to be groggy in the morning, either. It would be nice, for once, to wake up in time to hear the birds on the Island greet the sunrise. His fatigue was already making him miss too much of this visit as it was...

"I was hoping you would still be awake."

Joe nearly jumped out of his skin. He snapped his head around to see Methos lounging in the doorway, looking greatly amused by his surprise. Well, that was Methos all over for you, entertained by the simplest things. Joe could have sworn he hadn't even heard the door open. "Jesus Christ on a bicycle, old man!" he exclaimed. "Are you trying to give me heart failure?"

"No. Heart failure is the last thing I want to give you, Joseph." The amusement vanished, replaced by an eerie solemnity. "In fact, I would strongly prefer it if you never died at all."

Ancient green-gold eyes met Joe's, knowing, unflinching. Joe felt a shiver go down his back. So here it was, at last. "You know, then," he said. "About the cancer."

"Yes.” Methos nodded. “Yes, I know."

"I thought you might.” Joe sighed. “Who did you call? Amy? Or the doc?"

A soft smile. "Both."

"Meddling SOB." Joe said the words without a hint of rancor. In fact, they might have been an endearment. "Aren't you going to ask me why I didn't tell you sooner?"

"No." Methos closed the door gently behind him and stepped softly across the room. The green-gold gaze was even more unsettling up close. "I think I know...and if I'm wrong, it doesn't matter. I'm not here to talk about your illness, Joe."

Joe looked at the Immortal, confused. Something wasn't right here. There was something in the way Methos moved, the way he spoke... "So what are you here for, then?"

"Can't you guess?"

"I really haven't the faintest idea." Joe was getting more and more confused by the minute. "Methos, what's going on?"

“Let me give you a hint.” Methos sat down on the bed. Joe had the oddest impression that Methos was trying to memorize him, fix his features in his mind as clearly as a photograph. Then he bent forward and, ever so gently, kissed Joe on the lips.

It was, more or less, just as perfect as Joe had always thought it would be. Methos was one damned hell of a good kisser. *Don't want to give me heart failure, Methos?* he thought ruefully. *Good thing the doc has me on a few things for the old ticker as well as the arthritis and the pain, or you'd have a corpse on your hands pretty quick...* For a long moment Joe allowed himself to swim in the pleasure of it, the kiss awakening senses and desires he hadn't felt in much too long. Then common sense intruded. He put a hand between them and gently pushed Methos away. "Methos," he said huskily. "I think you'd better explain yourself, my friend."

"Oh, Joe. That's just the problem. I'm your *friend*--when I should have been much more than that." He gave Joe a soft, gentle smile. "I love you, Joe."

Joe's heart skipped a beat. Almost, almost he could believe...but no. It was impossible. "Don't play games with me, old man," he said. "Not now. It's too serious."

"I know it is," Methos answered. He moved a little closer, reaching out to touch Joe's cheek with the tips of his fingers. Joe shivered. "It's much, much too serious, thanks to me. I've wasted so much time...and not just my time, Joe. I could forgive myself if I’d just done that. But no, I’ve wasted *your* time, which is infinitely more precious. Joe, I'm not playing any games. When I said I loved you, I meant I *loved* you. The way I loved Alexa. The way I love MacLeod. No, don't shake your head. It's the truth." Joe froze, stopping his head in mid-denial. Methos's voice took on a deeply tender tone. "Don't look so surprised. Don't you have any idea how beautiful you are to me?"

*Beautiful.* The word rang through Joe's brain like a grand piano striking one magnificent chord in an empty concert hall. Very few people in Joe's life had ever even called him "handsome"; beauty was something he'd never dared hope for. That gift was the exclusive property of men like Methos and MacLeod, not him...especially not now, when age and illness had practically made him into a walking corpse. "You're insane," he said quietly. "You can't possibly..."

"But I do." Gentle, tender hands wrapped around Joe’s neck, urging his face forward. Joe resisted, but not for long. He couldn't, all the muscles in his back and neck having suddenly turned into inconvenient mush. Joe leaned toward the Immortal, slowly, yearning, somehow knowing that he was at last going to touch something he'd been reaching for his entire life. And Methos kissed him again.

It was a different kiss, this time. Gentler, softer, the Immortal hands lightly cradling his skull as if he were something incredibly precious. When Joe pulled away, his tears were running freely. "I was never going to tell you," he said brokenly. "I was going to go to my grave just being your friend…"

"And I was going to let you." Methos’s voice was full of vulnerability, and honest regret. Gentle thumbs reached up to brush the saltwater from Joe's cheeks. "Good thing MacLeod's smarter than both of us."

"MacLeod." Joe repeated the name without comprehension, drawing a deep shaky breath. Fuck, but having Methos run the ball of his thumb over Joe’s cheekbone was erotic. The simple touch seemed to have fire hidden behind it, making Joe's whole skin tingle and his entire body fill with need. It had been so long... Then he suddenly realized what Methos had just said, and bolted upright. "MacLeod. Oh, my god. MacLeod. Methos, Duncan is your world. Don't lie to me, we both know it's true. You have to get out of here before he finds us. Before this breaks his heart…"

"Shhh. It's all right. He knows. Duncan knows." The finger Methos briefly pressed to Joe’s lip was a pleasure even greater than the brushing away of his tears. Joe had to fight hard to keep his breath under control, keep his tongue from licking out to taste. "Who do you think sent me?"

"Duncan?" Methos nodded. Joe tried to wrap his head around this, failed utterly. "But... Duncan *loves* you. You're everything to him."

"I know. He loves you too."

A sound, halfway between a laugh and sob, came out of Joe's throat. "Just not in the same way you do. Right?"

"No. Not exactly." Methos kissed his shoulder, sending rare trills of pleasure through Joe's body. The soft warmth of his breath tickled Joe's neck. "But he wants you to be happy. Me, as well."

*Happy*. It was an important word, an important concept. An important question to ask. "And are you, old man? Happy?"

"No. Not completely." The sea of sensation that was Methos's body pressed against him shifted slightly as Methos shook his head. "I'm going to lose you in a few short months. I *can't* be happy, knowing that. But since there's nothing I can do to change it, I am *very* glad I get this chance to be with you." Gentle fingers ghosted over Joe's chest. Joe suppressed a moan. "What about you, Joe? Are you happy?"

"Once I recover from the shock, I think I'll be happier than I've ever been in my life." Joe said honestly. "Methos, I can't tell you how much I...you are so..."

Once again, the single finger pressed to his lips. "Don't try, Joe. Some things just won't fit into words," he said, and Joe had to bend his head to the simple truth of that. "Can I join you in the bed now?"

"Please." Joe moved over, making space. Methos stood, stripping off his boxers and robe; Joe watched him intently, feeling his throat go dry with an anticipation so fierce it hurt. "Methos?"

"Yes, Joe?"

"I'm not...you won’t like...oh, hell." Embarrassment choked him. Methos just waited patiently, one hand on the bedclothes, so beautiful in his nudity Joe thought his heart would stop. "I...my body isn't a particularly pretty sight, old man. It never was, but at least when you first met me, I was young and strong. That's not true anymore. The chemo has taken a toll..."

"Am I supposed to be surprised?" Methos asked sharply. "Joe, do you honestly think you are the first mortal I've ever loved into his age?"

Joe looked down, suddenly ashamed he’d even brought the matter up. No, he couldn't accuse Methos of that. There must have been other, perhaps countless other, men and women that Methos had loved until they died, and at least a handful of them must have reached an age equivalent to his. He just hadn't thought about it before now. "Have you ever wondered why so many Immortals stay with their mortal wives or husbands, even when the mortals look like the Immortal's grandparents to the outside world?" Methos asked. "It isn't out of some twisted sense of charity, you know. Nor is it a noble sacrifice made to the memory of youthful companionship and love." His voice softened. "We genuinely think you mortals get more beautiful as time goes by."

Joe's restless fingers plucked at the quilt top. His head couldn't quite believe Methos was telling the truth, but his heart couldn't believe it was a complete lie, either. *At least*, he thought, *at least if it’s a lie, it's a kind one. He wouldn't bother to say such things if he didn't really care.* "You do?"

"We do," Methos answered. "How can we not? You are the embodiment of everything we can never have." Joe felt a brief chill as the quilt was pulled back, then sudden warmth as Methos slipped under. Acres of warm smooth skin flowed up against him, not shying away from his amputated legs, and Joe dropped his head to the pillow in pure pleasure. "Please don't try to hide from me, Joe," Methos said. "I've waited too long for this."

"So have I, old man. So have I." Oh god. It had been so long since Joe had shared a bed with a lover...so long since anyone but a doctor or nurse had touched his body, so long since he'd known anything besides detached professional hands. Even the grand kids had stopped hugging him long ago, frightened by his illness and his pain. Joe knew he'd have to change that as soon as he got home, but for now...for now, his entire skin was aching, and when Methos's hand brushed his forearm he responded with a hungry moan that made the old Immortal chuckle. "Touch me, Methos," Joe pleaded. "I won't hide from you, but you have to touch me. I'm so hungry for your hands."

"My hands are hungry for you, Joe. You don't know..." Methos's voice broke, and Joe was startled to see a tear rolling down his cheek. He pulled Joe's face to his and kissed him thoroughly. Then he reached for the lamp on the bureau and turned out the light.

Some things are too perfect for words.

***

Duncan knew he shouldn't peek. Nevertheless, when he woke around midnight and heard the sounds coming from Joe's slightly open bedroom door on his way to the kitchen, he couldn't help himself. Methos was making sounds Duncan had never heard before: great, half choking sobs of pleasure that almost sounded as if they would break him in two, they were so strong. Joe's gentle murmurs of "Yes, yes, just like that. You're so wonderful...oh, god, I never dreamed..." were nearly drowned out. Duncan tiptoed to the door and looked in.

The moonshine coming in through the window both illuminated and hid the lovers. Duncan could just make out Methos's long, shadowy form lying on his back with Joe's hand between his legs, head tossed back against the pillows in ecstatic pain as Joe continued to croon. "Yes, that's it. Let it go now. Let me hear you..."

The cries ended in a roar as Methos climaxed, and then degenerated into a more regular series of sobs as the ancient Immortal once again allowed himself to fully cry out his grief. Joe took Methos in his arms and started whispering in his ears. Duncan couldn't hear what he said, but he was sure that whatever it was, it was exactly what Methos needed to hear. Duncan gently pulled the door closed and tiptoed away.

When morning came, Duncan heard more tears--but this time it was Joe who was crying and Methos who was comforting, not the other way around. He knocked gently on the door, and when Methos called out "Come in, Duncan," he pushed his way inside. "Not the sounds I was expecting to hear this morning," he said wryly, looking down at where the two men were sitting, both dressed in fresh t-shirts and shorts. Joe was propped up against the middle of the headboard. Methos was lounging at his side. "Here, Joe. I brought you a stack of fresh handkerchiefs. Methos, is there anything else I can do?"

"I don't think so, Duncan. We were just talking, that's all."

"Yeah." Joe nodded, wiping his eyes. "We were just...ah, hell." He took a handkerchief and blew his nose noisily. "It's stupid. I know it's going to happen, and I know there's nothing I can do to stop it, but I just...Christ, I don't want to die. I really don't."

Duncan sat on the foot of the bed. "None of us do."

"No," Methos agreed. "I personally hate the thought of dying so much that I've stayed alive for five thousand years--and believe me, living was NOT always the soft option. You haven't gotten anywhere near that point, Joe. Of course you don't want to die."

"I know, but...oh, god. Look at me." Joe twisted the handkerchief agitatedly in his hands. "Crying like a baby. I meant to be stronger. I'm sorry."

"Don't be, Joe," Duncan said earnestly. He looked at Methos, saw the old Immortal nod slightly. "You don't have to hide anything with us. We want to help, in any way we can. If that means holding you while you cry for a day or a week... that's fine. Both of us are waterproof."

"I guess you are. There's not even a chance I might drown you, is there. At least not permanently." Duncan and Methos both shook their heads, tiny smiles on their faces. Joe smiled too. "It's funny, but I guess crying is the only thing I have left to do," he said. "Everything else has been arranged for months. The casket's picked out, the funeral's all planned, the will's been signed and sealed. Little Joe and the rest of the grandkids will be provided for. I've even got my hospice picked out for the last few weeks--the doc says I'm going to have some bad times, near the end--"

"Hospice?" Methos looked outraged. "Joe, don't be ridiculous. You can't be amongst strangers at a time like this. You must stay here. Duncan and I will care for you."

"No, Methos," Joe answered gently. "I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the asking, but no. Amy's offered me pretty much the same thing--her spare bedroom, and time off from work to take care of me--but I won't do that to her and the kids, and I won't do that to you. Your last memories of me are not going to involve changing bedpans or administering pain medication. It's better to let the professionals cope with that."

"But--" Duncan protested.

"No," Joe said more firmly. "It's the way I want it, Duncan. Maybe if things were different, and I didn't have anybody else, I'd take you up on it. This Island would be a lovely place to die." He looked out the window wistfully for a moment. "But no. I've got to stay in the city, near Amy and the kids. I've already taught them what I could about living a good life. All of them love the blues, and they know a lot about how to treat each other with kindness. Now I need to show them how to have a good death, as well."

Duncan nodded, his heart full. Methos said hesitantly--"What *can* we do, then?"

"Not much," Joe said honestly. "Be good to each other. Try to keep your silly heads on your shoulders for a few more millennia. Look after my descendants if they ever need an Immortal helping hand. There isn't anything more I can ask." He coughed gently. "Except..."

"What?"

Joe flushed uncomfortably. "Could you tell me what it's like? Dying, I mean."

The two Immortals got very still. "Damn,” Joe said. “It’s all right; you don't have to answer that if you don't want to. I told myself I wouldn't ask you--but you two ARE the only ones I've ever known who have taken that trip and lived to tell the tale, so to speak. I know it's probably not the same as what I'm going to do, but there might be some similarities. You might be able to tell me what to expect."

Duncan and Methos looked at each other for a moment. It was very easy for Duncan to read Methos's mind--the same thoughts were buzzing in his. *Should we tell him? Would it do any good?* Finally, Methos sighed. "It hurts," he said.

Joe looked apprehensive. "Yeah?"

"Like hell," Duncan agreed. Instinctively, he moved closer, stretching out along Joe's other side. He felt the same need Methos did, to comfort and protect Joe from the truth. Joe seemed grateful for the touch; he settled into Duncan's embrace easily. "The circulatory system shuts down before the nervous system does, and that's--well, imagine the worst case of pins and needles you've ever had and multiply it by a thousand," Duncan said. "It doesn't last long, but while it does...there's pain filling every muscle, searing along every inch of your skin. You even hurt in places where Grey's Anatomy claims there aren't nerves. It isn't a lot of fun."

Joe shuddered. "Maybe I shouldn't have asked."

"No, Joe, you should have," Methos said. "You'll be able to stand it better if you're not taken by surprise. And you have to understand that, when Duncan and I die, it's usually quite sudden, due to a violent cause. It won't be like that for you. The doctors will have you on lots of pain medication. It does make a difference."

"Gee. Something to look forward to." Joe swallowed. "You said the pain part didn't last long. What happens then?"

Again, Duncan and Methos exchanged lengthy glances. "Well," Duncan said, "that part's different for every Immortal. It's even different between deaths."

"The world starts going away," Methos explained. "One by one, the senses give up. Vision usually cuts out first; it just takes so much damn brain power to support. Then--well, it's different for everyone. Duncan loses his sense of touch..."

"It's like getting very, very cold," Duncan said. "Except that there's no cold like it anywhere on earth. Not even in the Antarctic."

"I sometimes think Duncan 's got the better deal," Methos said. "I almost always lose my sense of hearing next. It’s like somebody hit the "mute" button on the world. Then smell goes, which usually means I'm acutely aware of the pain and just how badly my mouth tastes. Finally taste fades, too, and then--well, as Duncan says, it's like getting very, very cold. And after that there's just...nothing."

"God." Joe stared at them. "Methos--Duncan--both of you have voluntarily taken bullets to save my life. You mean you put yourself through that kind of pain on purpose? For *me*?"

Duncan smiled. "You were worth it."

“Absolutely,” Methos agreed.

"Wow. I guess I must have been." Joe looked thoughtful. "Methos…when do I stop being me? You know, stop remembering that I was once a person named Joe Dawson?"

"Oh, Joe. I wish I could tell you." Methos said sadly. "All I can say is that for me--after all the rest of this happens, and I know there's no time left--there is still a little spark of me that hangs around, a spark that knows what's happening. Sometimes I "see" things that I know can't possibly be there, places that haven't existed for millennia, faces that have been dust for twice as long. But even that fades in time. Eventually, there really is...nothing. Until that next horrible breath fills my lungs, and everything starts over."

"Which won't happen for me."

"No. It won't."

"Do you..." Joe's eyes were glistening. "Do you *remember* anything, when you come back? Anything about where you were?"

"I--" Methos looked at Duncan, words failing him. Duncan sent him a look of loving sympathy and took over. "Sometimes, there are faint memories," the Highlander said. "Odd music that we can't quite recall, scents, sensations. But we've sort of decided that's just our subconscious minds trying to make sense of the feelings of healing before we're truly awake, not anything paranormal. I'm sorry, Joe. If there's an afterlife, Methos and I haven't been there."

"Ah, well. I sort of figured that. One of you would have mentioned it long before now if you had."

"Don't think about it too much," Methos advised. "Just make up your mind that you're going to meet it bravely, the same way you would any other new experience, and then stop worrying about it. Concentrate on *living* instead. It's the only way."

"I know." Joe smiled. "You've taught me a lot about that in the time I've known you, old man.”

Methos looked deeply pleased. “Have I?”

“You have. Especially last night." Joe reached for him, and they kissed.

Duncan watched as the kiss stretched on, seeing the beauty in it, feeling a deep peace in his heart. He had done the right thing, forcing Methos to face the truth. Both Joe and his beloved had needed this. Duncan heard Methos make a soft sound of pleasure as Joe’s lips hit a particularly sensitive spot, making Duncan strongly suspect the conversation was over. *I think that's my cue to leave* the Highlander thought, and started to make a graceful withdrawal.

Joe's hand on his thigh stopped him. "No. Please don't go, Duncan," he said. "I don't want to lose a moment. I mean, I need...."

"You want me to stay?" Duncan frowned, but he saw the sudden look of hope on Methos's face, quickly covered by a mask of patient waiting. *Methos wants me to stay, wants me to share this,* he realized. *But he won't say anything to influence me. I wonder...* "Want me to stay while Methos makes love to you?"

Joe shook his head. "Not just Methos," he said. "It's been so long since anybody really touched me, I think I got drunk just feeling Methos's hands against my skin. Two pairs could push me over the edge altogether. Besides, it's about grabbing life while you can, isn't it? Somehow I doubt there's going to be a lot of handsome Immortal men hanging around where I'm going. It would be nice to have a good look at both of you before I..." A pause. "Leave."

"Methos?"

"It's up to you, beloved," Methos said quietly. "But I think this could be a memory both of us would appreciate having." He grinned suddenly, breaking the tension. "After all, it's not like Joe and I are corrupting you. You're hardly a virgin when it comes to threesomes."

"Even if they do usually involve two women, instead of two men," Joe contributed.

"And just how would the two of you know that?" Both men merely smirked. Duncan sighed. "One of these days I'm going to have to burn that Chronicle of mine."

"Can't," Joe said smugly. "The Chronicles are all electronic now, secure in the cloud with four sets of decentralized local backups. It would take one hell of a disaster to cover up your sinful past, my friend."

"Hmmm. I may have to see what I can do about arranging one." Duncan smiled and got to his feet. "But I think I'd better take some of these clothes off first."

"Oh, yes, do," Methos replied. "Slippers and a heavy robe are *so* passé for an orgy, after all. I'm afraid it's hopeless, Duncan. There's no way you can salvage that outfit. You'll simply have to chuck it all together." He raised both arms over his head and stretched languidly on the bed, eyes raking over Duncan 's body in a way that never failed to stir the Highlander's lust. "Slowly, please. One piece at a time."

"It's not enough that you're asking me to participate in my first all-male threesome?" Duncan teased. "You want me to further compromise my virtue by making me perform a striptease as well?"

Methos's eyes twinkled. "If you would."

"I'd certainly appreciate it," Joe chimed in.

Duncan just grinned widely and slipped the robe off his shoulders. He was keenly aware of Methos watching him, lust and humor covering a deeper gratitude that made Duncan's heart sing. He nodded at him, saying "you're welcome" in that wordless way only long term-lovers know, and saw Methos gracefully incline his head in response. Duncan was a little apprehensive about what was to come, but not overly so; he trusted Methos to see that this would, indeed, turn into a deeply happy memory, healing more than it hurt. In the meantime, Joe was staring at him openly, devouring him with his eyes. When Duncan removed his sweatshirt and paused to shake out his hair, the old Watcher gasped. "Good god," he said. "I'd forgotten."

"He is something, isn't he?" Methos said.

"More than something," Joe said admiringly. "I know I used to Watch you training in the dojo sometimes, Duncan, and it was always a pleasant bonus when you chose to work out without a shirt, but...well. Like I said, I'd forgotten." The old mortal's gaze traced slowly over the lines of Duncan's shoulders, then down over his arms to the place where Duncan 's long mane of loose hair brushed his elbows. He smiled impishly. "Thank heavens you talked him into growing his hair out again, Methos."

"One of my prouder accomplishments," Methos replied. "It took me a while to convince him, but it was certainly worth the effort. He just didn't look right without that damn ponytail."

"I know exactly you mean. It wasn't like he wasn't handsome with short hair, but he just didn't look like Duncan MacLeod..."

"I *am* still in the room, you know," Duncan said mildly, folding the shirt and dropping it on the chair by Joe's bed. His hair now reached nearly two thirds of the way down his back, longer than he'd worn it since his time with Little Deer. Duncan looked at a lock softly tickling his elbow and felt a sudden melancholy sadness. "And there were reasons I decided to cut it when I did."

"We know, love," Methos answered meekly. "We didn't mean to tease." He held out his hands. "Come to bed."

Duncan quickly dropped his sweat pants to the ground and did as Methos asked, placing himself so Joe would be in the middle. As he slid under the covers, Duncan suddenly realized that when Joe died, fully one third of the people who had witnessed Richie's death would be gone. *And fully half of the people who eventually forgave me for it. Oh, Richie...* It was an overwhelming thought, realizing that he was about to lose the only mortal in the world to have known that Richard Ryan was Immortal and loved him for what he was. Methos had once told him that Joe had mourned Richie as deeply as if Richie been a son of his own, during that year Duncan had been away. *That's what Joe has always done*, Duncan thought. *He Watches us, and then he loves us for exactly what we are. I'm more than 400 years old and I still haven't learned how to do that, although Methos teaches me more every day. No wonder Methos fell in love...* "Your night, Joe," he said huskily. "Or morning, as the case may be. Methos and I are here for you. Tell us what you'd like."

"Umm..." Joe sounded embarrassed. "I hadn't really thought that far." He looked, almost worshipfully, from Methos's leanly chiseled chest to MacLeod's more overtly muscular one, and then laughed shakily. "Being the filling in an Immortal sandwich is a pretty new experience. I don't think even my wildest fantasies ever got this far."

"I know mine didn't," Methos said wryly. "But I wouldn't worry about it too much, if I were you. After all, there's almost five and half millennia worth of sexual experience here in this bed. I'm pretty sure we can come up with something that will make you melt into a mindless pile of slush. Right, Duncan?" Duncan nodded, placing his hand on Joe's chest, just above his left nipple. Joe jumped at the touch, but then relaxed into it, sighing softly. "Sound good, Joe?" Methos asked.

"Oh, yeah." The answer was heartfelt. "Melt away."

Duncan smiled and followed his hands with his lips, letting his hair brush over Joe's chest. Joe closed his eyes. "That's it, Joe," Methos whispered. "Just relax. Duncan and I will take care of everything." The ancient's pale fingers gently traced the line of Joe's lips. Duncan looked from Joe's blissful face to Methos. The old Immortal wore a look of almost unbearable tenderness, coupled with a sadness that went straight to Duncan 's heart. He knew exactly what Methos was thinking. *Not enough time. There never is, where mortals are concerned. But this time, at least, there will be two of us to remember. It won't be another lost love for Methos to carry on his own.* He pulled away from his gentle teasing of Joe's chest to give Methos a quick kiss on the forehead, reminding him he wasn't alone. Methos gave him a heartfelt smile. Duncan smiled back and returned to the work of making Joe melt.

It wasn't a very difficult job. Joe was a very sensual man, which Duncan supposed he would have guessed if he'd ever taken the time to think about it. It was very sweet, having the chance to discover it now. The body underneath him felt almost tragically fragile, much too thin and much too pale. But there could be no question that the Joe Duncan knew was still in there, responding with all the passion of a man forty years younger. Every touch from Duncan's or Methos's skillful hands brought another sigh or moan of pleasure, until at last Joe's sense of embarrassment faded and he started giving back as good as he got. One by one Joe reached for them, treating each Immortal to an incredibly sensual kiss, while his broad musician's hands played over both muscular Immortal bodies. "I thought...we told you... to relax," Methos panted after his third or fourth turn at Joe's mouth, his lips lusciously swollen and his breath coming in gasps. When Duncan saw where Joe's hand was resting, he immediately understood why. "This...was supposed...to be about *you*..."

"It is, old man. It is." Joe continued to stroke Methos's erection lovingly. Methos groaned and reached for the headboard, fingers clenching around it as pleasure threatened to overwhelm him. With the exception of his shadowy glimpses of last night, Duncan had never seen his beloved being pleasured by another. He found the sight intensely erotic, especially when Methos let out a helpless moan. "Come up here where I can reach you, Methos,” Joe said. “I want to taste you."

"Yesss." The word was breathed in ecstasy, and Duncan moved hastily aside so Methos could straddle Joe's chest. Methos piled a couple of pillows under Joe's head so the mortal could reach him comfortably, then leaned back and tried to hold still while Joe used his mouth to make love to his cock. It was all so incredibly sexy Duncan could hardly stand it. His own cock felt as rigid as a bar of iron as he watched his beautiful lover almost-climax, be teased back from the edge, then brought right back to it, keening wildly. *Where on earth did Joe learn how to make another man make sounds like that?* the Highlander wondered. *Could there be some secret Watcher sex training neither of them bothered to tell me about? It's probably part of the first year Academy curriculum: 'How To Make an Immortal Moan 101'. Could be very useful in the field...* Duncan's own hips were pumping wildly, fucking the air; he desperately wanted to touch himself, but knew the slightest contact would send him over. He met Joe's gaze. Joe's eyes sparkled in amusement, and he reached out his hand. Gratefully Duncan rubbed up against Joe’s palm as Joe closed his fingers around him, and it turned out Duncan had been right. All it took was one touch…

The climax was about four times as intense as Duncan had expected it to be, and by the time the Highlander's spasms had subsided Methos was coming too. Duncan watched as Methos collapsed bonelessly backwards, too exhausted to keep his weight from falling on the Watcher's lower body. Joe didn't seem to mind. He just wiped his mouth and grinned like a Cheshire cat. "Well. That was...historic. I can't wait to write it up for your Chronicles."

There was a lengthy silence...then Methos, still exhausted, reached out a lazy arm to snatch one of the misplaced pillows and throw it at Joe. Joe ducked, but not quickly enough. The pillow landed squarely over his face. "I WAS kidding," the pillow said, gently quivering with every word.

"I should hope so," Duncan said, groaning softly as he convinced his own sated body to sit up. He pulled the pillow off Joe's face. "Isn't Amy the Chief Administrator of Northwest Operations now? Doesn't that mean she has to read every report filed by a field agent in the area?"

"Umm...yeah. Yeah, she does." Joe considered this for a second. He shuddered. "Never mind. The Chronicles will just have to remain incomplete. Some things are too special too share."

"Too special to share with strangers, Joe," Methos admonished, struggling to sit up himself. "Not too special to share amongst friends."

Joe's smile was tender. "More than friends now, old man."

"Yes." Methos made it upright, caressed Joe's face with back of his hand. "More than friends. As we always should have been." He looked at Duncan. "Duncan?"

"Yes, beloved?"

"Joe doesn't look anywhere near 'melted' enough for me. We still have some work to do. Help me roll him over onto his side."

"I don't need..." Joe protested, but Methos silenced him with a kiss, and he stopped resisting. Just what had he been protesting, anyway? His need for fulfillment? His loss of independence? He could have rolled over on his own, but he’d lost a lot of his upper body strength during the cancer treatment, and the truth of the matter was he was tired enough to make it a struggle. Taking advantage of the Immortals' combined strength seemed only reasonable, and feeling the Highlander shift his weight so easily was a thrill all on its own. Joe ended up facing Methos, with Duncan spooned up against him from behind. Duncan treated him to a glorious back and neck massage while Methos kissed his way down Joe's body from chest to waist, each man working with such sensual slowness that Joe truly did feel himself begin to melt. *Another moment and I'll be floating,* he thought, closing his eyes to savor the sensations. *Better than my wildest fantasy, indeed...*

"Joe?" It was Methos's voice, coming from a place tantalizingly near Joe's groin. The ancient's warm breath caressed Joe’s thigh, sending a shiver up his spine. "Would you like me to tell you a story?"

"Hmmm?" Managing even that much of a word was very hard. Joe was rapidly leaving the realm of coherent speech behind. "Shtory?"

"Well, it's more of a fantasy, really," Methos admitted. "But I'd like to tell it you about it anyway. It's a fantasy I had shortly after we first met." He closed his hand over Joe's penis, petting gently. Joe groaned. "It started the night you first invited me to your weekly Watcher's poker party, despite the fact that I was just a kid, not even finished with my first year at the Academy yet. Do you remember?"

"I sure do." Joe smiled, an expression that had nothing to do with Methos's hand on his cock, or Duncan 's lips on his shoulder. "I remember how that 'kid' beat all of us, and drank his way through nearly the entire case of beer I'd laid in to boot. Jack Davis never did forgive me for inviting you."

"I know." Methos laughed. "I really should have been more subtle. Taking a bunch of senior Watcher's money was hardly a smart career move. But I wanted to impress you. And you have to admit that the party ended early...so early, in fact, that I think you felt a little guilty about it. You didn't ask me to leave when everyone else did, remember? I helped you clean up, and then you asked me if I liked music..."

"That's right. I did." A late night, a dark apartment, and a "kid" apparently made terribly embarrassed and bashful by his surprise winnings, much too bashful to crush by throwing out... Joe had put him to work instead, figuring it might as well be the kid's strong young legs that carried the post-party detritus of beer cans and dirty plates into the kitchen. It had been one of Joe’s life’s more rewarding surprises to discover that the quiet conversation they shared while Joe washed the dishes and "Adam" dried was about 1,000 times more entertaining than the party itself. When everything had been put away--and both kitchen and living room were much tidier than they had been since before Joe had moved in--he'd asked the kid if he liked the blues, got out his guitar, and started to play. He could still remember the feel of the strings under his fingers and the way the kid had watched him from the shadows, mouth slightly open, hazel eyes brilliant. "You looked at me like I was some kind of god," Joe said now. "Like you'd never heard music before."

"I hadn't. Not like that," Methos answered. He kept up his gentle stroking. "You were so beautiful. The music was incredible, but it was *you* I wanted to remember. The way you looked. The way you sounded. That's why I stared at you, Joe. I never wanted to forget."

*Beautiful.* Funny, there was that word again, spoken once again about Joe’s own ordinary self. It was a bit easier to accept now, in a shared memory about the past. Joe could almost actually believe that he had been beautiful when he played, back when he really hadn't been all that much older than the "kid" he thought he serenaded. "Anyway, that's where the fantasy starts out," Methos continued. "I loved having you play for me, Joe. I wanted to do a whole lot more than stare."

Joe nodded. "I wanted to do more than stare myself." What had actually happened was that he'd sung a song or three, and then Adam had gotten his coat and slipped out the front door....but even so it had been one of those nights that linger in the memory for the rest of a person's life, a night of rare discovery. Somehow, in the time between the end of the poker party and Adam Pierson's departure, the first flair of friendship Joe had felt for the gangly Academy student had changed into something more, become recognition of a kinship so deep it would haunt him for the rest of his days. *It was Methos I met that night, not just Adam Pierson,* Joe thought now. *And we are family, no matter how different we may seem. We're both members of the Great Brotherhood of Survivors, the ones who somehow managed to keep their hearts open enough to love. That's what I learned that night, and that's what I've known ever since. Even when I didn't want to admit it…* Shaky, but feeling MacLeod's arms encircling his waist, the Highlander's comforting strength a palpable force lending him energy, Joe touched a hand to Methos's hair. "What did you want to do, old man?"

Methos's hand, which had been consistently stroking him through the entire conversation, stopped. "You'll laugh."

"Maybe. I can't promise I won't. But it won't be the hurting kind of laughter, Methos."

"No. I guess it wouldn't be." Methos looked thoughtful for a moment, than smiled dazzlingly. "I *wanted* to kiss your guitar," he confessed.

Joe tried not to let it out--but the laugh escaped him anyway, starting with a great snort that seemed to split the room. Fortunately, Methos was laughing, too. Even MacLeod chuckled. Joe could feel him shaking against his back. "Well, that can still be arranged," Joe said finally when the hilarity had subsided. "Was that *all* you wanted to do?"

"No. Shall I tell you how I pictured it?" Joe nodded. "You played," Methos said. "You played, dazzling me with every note--and while you played I left my chair and knelt at your feet, looking up at you. You had your eyes closed, because you were lost in the music, but you knew I was there. The rest of the song flowed by with the most beautiful tension, both of us knowing that something very important was about to happen, but knowing it could wait until the right time. Finally, finally, you played the last chord; the notes faded away into silence, and that's when I bent forward and pressed my lips to the guitar, right below where your fingers were resting on the strings. I could feel the last of the vibration in my mouth. I could hear you shifting in the chair, stretching, resettling yourself. Then you looked down..." Methos swallowed. "And saw me. Not Adam Pierson. Not the Horseman named Death. Not even Methos, the World's Oldest Immortal. Me. Just me..."

"I always have seen you," Joe answered, feeling a mist of tears start in his eyes. "Even when I was too dumb to realize what it was I saw."

"I know, Joe." Methos's voice was melodic and soft. "That why it's going to be so hard to lose you." He cleared his throat and went on with the story, picking up Joe's hands. "You put the guitar aside. I stayed kneeling, but I took your hands in mine and kissed them, as well. And you let me. I knew you weren’t used to this; I knew you weren’t used to sitting and simply letting yourself be adored, not by a man, and especially not by one who you thought was so much younger. But that part of you that saw me knew you weren’t taking advantage. That part of you knew I never give what I don't want to give. And this was something I wanted to give you very much...so you just sat, letting me worship your hands with my mouth." Joe groaned. Methos was suiting deed to words, nibbling along each of his fingers in a way that was almost unbearably erotic. The second Joe thought he couldn't stand the nibbles another moment Methos switched to caressing him with his tongue, gently rubbing and sucking each joint the arthritis had thickened. "I love your hands, Joe," Methos said quietly in between kisses and licks. "I love *you*."

"I love you, too." It came out more as a whisper than the declaration it should have been, but Methos heard. He lifted Joe's hands up to Joe's shoulders, and after a moment the Highlander engulfed them in his own, brushing a kiss over the knuckles of one and rubbing the other wrist with his thumb. For a moment Joe was confused and disappointed--why had Methos stopped? Then he understood. Methos was sliding down his body to his cock, and if he hadn't let MacLeod take over after all that stimulation, Joe's hands would have felt utterly naked and bereft. "I wanted to do this then," Methos whispered. "And I wanted to do it every time I saw you since then. More than thirty years, Joe. More than thirty years." And he took the Watcher gently in his mouth.

Hot wet softness surrounded Joe. His whole body trembled, both with emotion and the sweet feelings that traveled along his nerves like fire. If he hadn't felt the gentle pressure of Mac holding his hands, he might very well have passed out. But Mac *was* holding him, providing a firm anchor into the world of the bed and his body, keeping him from flying apart while excitement changed into need which changed into nothing but dazzling pleasure. Joe grabbed the Immortal hands and howled, pulsing his seed into Methos' eager mouth. The world went away...

...but promptly reassembled itself, filled with pleasures last catastrophic but no less sweet: the sensation of a body pushed to its limits and now beautifully sated, the feeling of two Immortals lovingly sponging him off and straightening out the disheveled bedclothes. Joe was too exhausted to help, but his lovers didn't seem to mind. They just snuggled into bed at his sides, two sets of arms holding him close. The last thing Joe heard was Methos whispering the word "Beautiful" into his ear. He took the sound with him into his sleep.

***

Joe called Amy the next morning, arranging to stay another two weeks. It went by much too fast.

The two Immortals gave up sleeping in their own room, gave up doing all but the most necessary tasks required to keep the house running. One or the other was always cuddled in the guestroom with Joe. The Watcher was simply too exhausted to move around the house, even as much as he had previously, and as the week went on both Duncan and Methos realized they'd been pushing him much too hard. Joe was a very sick man. What he really needed was a warm place to rest and meals served in bed, not the pressures of being a polite guest. 

But even with Joe's limitations, the rest of the visit was hardly wasted time. Sometimes they had sex. More often they simply held each other and talked, sharing stories and jokes. Methos in particular opened up about his past in a way Duncan had never heard him do before, and never expected him to do again. The Highlander sometimes had to sit back and marvel, because he learned more about his partner’s history in those two weeks than he had in the decade they'd lived side by side. He should have been jealous that Joe was the one to bring this about, but he couldn't be. All he could feel was gratitude.

Then came the day that Joe asked to spend some time alone in Methos's office. The Immortals were wildly curious, but they didn't ask questions. Duncan just carried Joe up the stairs and made him comfortable in Methos's big leather office chair, then he and Methos made themselves scarce until the door cracked open later that evening and Joe asked to be taken for a walk. They helped him strap on his prosthetics for the first time in a week and slowly walked up the hill beside the house, both Duncan and Methos hovering like anxious mother hens, ready to jump in if Joe so much as stumbled. Joe didn't stumble. He made it to the top, looked at the beautiful spread of trees and lake beneath him for several long moments, then finally spoke. "I have to go back tomorrow," he said. "You understand?"

Duncan nodded. So did Methos. "Only part of your life is here with us," the old Immortal said. "You have to go back to the rest of it."

"Exactly," Joe said. "I wish I could ask you to come with me. Be with me at the end. But I have to share that with the kids. And Amy would never understand asking two Immortals to be part of such an intense family moment."

"Amy is an idiot, Joe." Methos said matter-of-factly. "You do know that, right?"

Joe laughed. "Yeah, I know. She suffers from one of the greatest delusions that still poison our times: the idea that love has to look a certain way to be real. She'll learn, eventually, that 'family' is something you make for yourself, not something you're born into. But she's not going to learn it in time, and I'm not going to throw it in her face. It would hurt her too much." He sighed. "Instead I'm hurting you, because I know you're strong enough to stand it. I'm sorry. I wish it could be otherwise."

"It's all right, Joe," Duncan said. "Nobody gets exactly the death he wants."

"No. And nobody get to say goodbye exactly the way he wants to, either." Joe answered. "But we've come pretty close. Haven't we?"

"We have."

*** 

By the time morning came, there was nothing left to be said. Joe kissed Methos goodbye on the shore before stepping into the rowboat and having the Highlander carry him back across the water. Methos watched the boat disappear into the distance, feeling a hollowness that sapped every emotion. Later, he knew, there would be tears: lots of tears while the Highlander held him and rocked the pain out of his body, then still more when they traded places and he did the same for Duncan. There would even be a time when pain faded altogether and there was nothing left but joy, the unshakeable joy brought by a set of truly happy memories. But for now, all he could feel was numb. 

And restless. Methos went back inside and started wandering aimlessly around the house, tidying, dusting, looking for anything he could to keep his mind occupied, and realized that he hadn't yet made up Joe's bed. He stepped into the guestroom intent on stripping the dirty sheets...only to discover that the room was already as neat as it could possibly be, bed made and closet empty. For a moment Methos felt an irrational anger that Joe had tied up all the loose ends so neatly, left him with absolutely nothing to do to carry him through his current bleakness. Then Methos saw the two objects resting on the pillows. He approached them carefully, heart beating wildly.

The first object was a bottle of Scotch. It had a slip of paper tied around its neck, bearing the legend: "MacLeod: Open twenty years from now, or whenever you think best. You're a much better judge of the way time mellows fine liquor than I am. Joe." The second object was much smaller, rectangular, wrapped in tissue. Its tag said "For Methos, because you loved the music. Play this whenever you want, but at least wait until Mac comes back. Joe." Methos tore off the tissue. The package held a small thumb drive.

When Duncan returned to the Island, his muscles heavy and his heart heavier, he was astounded to find Methos waiting on the porch. The old Immortal was jumping up and down like a young boy on Christmas morning. "He left us something!" Methos shouted by way of explanation. "He must have recorded it on my computer that day he disappeared into the office...what the hell are you still standing there for? Come on!" He grabbed Duncan 's hand and dragged him up the stairs, not even giving the Highlander time to take off his coat. When they reached the office Methos turned his speakers up full blast and shoved the thumb drive in its slot, bouncing on the balls of his feet expectantly.

It took less than a minute for the music player to load and open the files. Duncan sat on the floor, feeling eerily displaced, as Joe's gravelly voice filled the small, sound-proofed room. The musician sang every song he'd played for them during the weeks he'd been on the Island, including the Monty Python adaptations that had made Duncan wince. Methos sat staring at the speakers like a man who'd had a holy vision, and Duncan silently blessed Joe for his thoughtfulness. No doubt the mourning would start again soon, but at least Methos had these files to hang onto, and for now it seemed to have short-circuited the grieving enough to give the old Immortal a much needed dose of joy. Duncan reached out and took his lover's hand, massaging gently, silently telling him he understood. Then there was a pause, and Joe began to play a song he hadn't played on the Island at all, at least not while the Immortals were present:

"There are places I remember  
All my life, though some have changed,  
Some forever, not for better...  
Some have gone, and some remain.  
All these places had their moments,  
With lovers and friends I still can recall;  
Some are dead, and some are living...  
In my life, I've loved them all.

"But of all these friends and lovers  
There is no one compares with you,  
And these mem'ries lose their meaning,  
When I think of love as something new.  
Though I know I'll never lose affection,  
For people and things that went before  
I know I'll often stop and think about them,  
But in my life, I'll love you more."

There were tears in Methos's eyes as the song ended. The music program had reached the end of its playlist, leaving the office cloaked in eerie silence. Duncan gave the slender fingers in his hand a gentle squeeze. "You gave him what he needed," he said.

"Thanks to you," Methos answered. "And he gave me what I needed, too. It is easier, saying goodbye, when you have memories to share instead of regrets."

"Yes." Duncan reached for the keyboard. "Shall we play it again?"

Methos stopped him. "No. Not yet. Later, when we get word he's really gone, we'll play it again. Right now it's just too soon." Duncan nodded. Methos looked at him. "Duncan?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

Duncan gently kissed Methos's forehead. "You’re welcome."

He helped Methos off the floor. They walked out of the office together.

The End 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is very welcome! This story was one of those great challenges, taking more than three years to write. I'd love to know how I did. :)


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